The Awkward Life of Amy Cahill
by Heart of A Madrigal
Summary: Hamilton and Amy-well, the chose to be with each other because there was no one else. Maybe they'll find other people, maybe they won't, maybe they decide to life different lives.


**This story is pre-Vespers, and is based off of my memory from a year ago. Sorry for any mistakes. It's a Iamy story, but it starts off a little Hamy ish. It's a revamp of my old story, High School Hell. **

"I followed you-I mean, well, no, actually, uh, I um just _tracked_-no, well, uh, that sounds awful, I didn't _track_ you," Hamilton began, fluttering his hands around his face like a bamboozled monkey. I felt my face begin to blanch in despair, because well, finding out that a familiar enemy was following, or _tracking_ me was not exactly exhilarating. My old life, _here_, in physical form was a mixture of despair and strange nostalgia.

"I just uh, I needed someone to talk to." I blinked, slowly, as though this might all disappear. Because Hamilton? Extensively talking about feelings? Well. How peachy.

"I just get these-these _nightmares_, about y'know, about what happened that day, with the tombstones and the-and the Kabra, and now there's the Vespers, and I don't know who or where they are, and I just keep thinking that someone, anyone, I just don't know, like someone I know might _die_ and-and-"

"Hamilton." I pushed his arms down slowly, as though they could pop right back up and start waving around like windblown palm trees. "I get it."

I did. I understood. I woke up screaming and _itching_ all over, like a small, unidentifiable roach was scurrying up and down my body, causing me pain without ever showing itself. Or that a gun was pointed at the nape of my neck, or that someone with dark, soulless eyes was gazing down at my sleeping form. Like most of my issues, these fears just never went away without a struggle. I'd breathe in and out and remind myself that I wasn't alone. Sometimes, it worked. Or I ended up sitting, alone in the dark, watching and waiting for tombstones to erupt out of the wooden floors, for grenades and guns and smooth suave voices with accents to come reverberating from the walls. The worst nights were when I _wished_ for these things, and when I questioned my sanity for reverting back to a normal life. But talking about these things wasn't going to help, and Hamilton, the stumbling, unsure boy who;d probably say the wrong thing was _not_ something I really wanted to deal with.

So what' should I say? Should I just invite him and the rest of my buried emotions? Or just leave him to the cold, cold shoulders of strangers?

I smiled, and took his arm, as though I could lead us to a better place than this one.

…

The first time we went on a date, Hamilton stuttered through every sentence. The wind was cold, blisteringly cold, and my heart thumped and skipped and danced every time we touched shoulders, I thought about trying to make conversation, looking up at his eyes to see if he'd look back down at me. He'd hold my hand in his sweaty palm, and he'd try to re-arrange our fingers because he thought that it might be uncomfortable for me. Dogs on bright, holiday themed leashes would trot by, and we'd sit on benches to watch them pass. We'd point out the ones we liked, and the ones that would be the most fun to set on our worst enemies. We'd warm our fingers around foam cups of hot cocoa from the nearby stands, and he'd take my hands in his and rub them together. I sometimes think that he was trying to make sure that I wouldn't run away or something, the way he held me like a prized item. He was so self-conscious, almost as much as I was.

That changed.

…

I don't think that he really meant to hurt me, that he really wanted to see the tears floating down my cheeks, that-that-

I'm not sure what he really meant, what he really wanted, why he was so willing to throw all that trust and history down the drain without a second glance.

But that's what happened, and I swore to myself, _swore_, that I would try not to strangle his oversized, ham-hocked neck. He might be useful in the future, and I couldn't bring myself to hurt him. As much as he damaged my trust, I was too tired to really care anymore. This is what happened.

…

I had stumbled home from school, my head ringing with the mistakes I had made on my algebra test. Was the answer to number six the _square_ root of six, or the negative and positive form of the square root of six? The teacher had let us out early, once we finished the exam, but most people were too exhausted and bewildered to whoop in excitement. My tense shoulders drooped a little, and I smiled at the sight of the livingroom, which was covered in glitter and hand-made ornaments. The eggnog and cinnamon drinks wafted with the breeze over the room, and I sighed in relief. Today was going to be a good day. All of New York was buzzing around with the cold. People and tinsel huddled together for warmth and happiness, and my eyes crinkled with excitement-_I'd_ be one of those stupid, cheesy couples in coffee shops, the ones that you can see through the tinted windows who were too oblivious to the outside world to notice anyone else but each other.

I was a cheesy, romantic giraffe. I'd never had a boyfriend before, and I was so, so worried about screwing this relationship up.

I crossed over the hallway, turning the doorknob to my room. The carpet dug under my toes, and I remember with a sickening twist in my stomach, how obliviously blissful I was that day. I think that I was even whistling, a slow, Christmassy tune about reindeers and smushed grandmas-and-and his arm was draped over her left breast, their faces slowly turned to each other.

I could tell that they were naked-just by the way the covers had slipped over their bodies, by the way her hair had spread over his bare chest-the way my, _my_ pillows supported their limbs. I imagined, as I had too many times, the way it would feel if _I _were that girl, the warmth and pleasure and knowing that someone was _all_ mines. I didn't know her, not really. I think she was just someone, maybe someone in our grade, someone I'd pass by in the hallways. I think she was pretty, I'm not sure, I didn't want to stick around long enough to figure out who or how I knew her, how _Hamilton _knew her.

I remember, in a slow daze, how I ran, slamming the door on my way out, tripping over beat-up, cardboard boxes of Christmas decorations, my tears blinding my eyes as I tore through the sidewalks of the city. Whizzing taxis passed me by, and bright lights streaming through my peripheral vision pierced the dull haze that I was in. I think that I knocked into someone, a middle-aged man, maybe. And I remember running into a certain, well, certainly _shocked_ Ian Kabra, as though he was thinking _What was she doing here_? , as though he didn't know I lived in this state. He was standing in front of a few men in suits, and I barreled through all of them, flattening them to the ground as though they were as delicate and airy as fall leaves.

**leave reviews, please **


End file.
